


we give up what we want when we want power

by hoard



Series: across the multiverse [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Class Differences, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Modern Royalty, Political Alliances, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-10 14:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoard/pseuds/hoard
Summary: Harry's really trying, God help him.





	we give up what we want when we want power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [milkandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/gifts).



Rescue comes for Draco in the dead of night. The strike to his head when they’d taken him captive has left him concussed; his vision throbs and bile raises into the back of his throat as he’s moved, kind hands firmly manipulating him so that he’s standing. 

“I’m gonna be sick.” Draco sways, hoping that his voice isn’t too loud. Everything sounds like screaming to him like this. The soldier pulls him outside into the darkness, between the tent Draco’d been kept in and the one next to it. He helps Draco to kneel into the mud at their feet. Draco vomits in between gasps, dizzy. There’s a hand at his forehead, a gentle pressure that keeps him from falling forward. There are lips pressed to his ear, gentle shushes whispered at him, to keep him calm. 

After a few aborted attempts, Draco spits a final time into the ground. “I’m finished,” he says. “sorry.”

“It’s alright,” the man says, before pulling back and helping Draco to stand again. They walk silently through camp, keeping to the edges. They make for the forest, Draco doing his best to keep up, not to be a burden, bad enough that he was such a high profile target that even the elite nature of the regiment Draco was placed into hadn’t been enough to keep them safe. He wonders if any of them survived — if all of them were slaughtered, a sacrifice, more nightmares and guilt for Draco to carry with him. 

Grinding comes from behind them, a spotlight casts wildly across the brush, as if in search of something. In search of them. The man curses and hides the both of them behind a tree. The ground beneath their feet starts to vibrate, likely a Goliath sent to retrieve them.

“Stay here,” the man says. Draco tries to keep hold of him, wants to tell him that Draco isn’t worth it, for him to save himself, that Draco can’t survive more guilt, but the man slips away, Draco’s fingers numb and useless, his tongue frozen in his throat. He sits at the base of the tree he’s been left at and wonders what will happen next. If the man will be killed, or if they’ll take him hostage too. 

Hands take hold of his shoulders. Draco assumes it’s the enemy soldiers, but it’s his rescuer again, muddy and breathing fast, yet otherwise unharmed. “C’mon,” he says, getting Draco back to his feet. “We’ve gotta move, your highness.”

Draco laughs. “Just a major out here, Private.” The moon above them is bright, full, allowing Draco to see the man's smile, just as lackadaisical as Draco’s laugh had been. 

“Alright,” he says, like they’re sharing a long-running joke, and then they’re moving again, the soldier helping Draco to navigate the uneven terrain, all the while muttering numbers under his breath. Eventually he counts up to five hundred and something-Draco-doesn’t-catch. He pulls them both behind a tree, cupping his hands over Draco's ears. “I’m really sorry about this your highness,” he says, and Draco wants to ask him what for, wants to chastise him for using his title again, but then a loud noise rings out, a burst of light illuminating the forest, and it’s too much for his brain to process. Passing out is a blessing. 

* * *

His father has a sick sense of humor. 

All these years of torturing Draco, hating him and casting him aside for who he is, all of it means nothing in the face of his father’s machinations. Draco’s never been able to so much as smile at another man, his father’s shadow long throughout the confines of the capital, following Draco wherever he goes. 

Draco has always known that his life amounts to nothing more than a bargaining chip, that he would likely be married off to some Gathan princess once the war finally ended, useful in securing peace but not worthy of taking over his father’s kingdom. Lucius still holds hope that he and Narcissa will sire another child, one not so broken and tainted as Draco, and that they will be a leader to the nation in Draco’s stead. 

He had thought that he’d at least until then, until the child was born and old enough that it would live into adulthood. Or better yet, no child to be born at all, and his father would potentially live eternally, just to ensure that Draco wouldn’t take over. The most likely being that his father would change the rules of the nation, dissolve the monarchy, just so that Draco couldn’t have it, couldn’t besmirch the Malfoy name, the legacy his father invented for them by sheer will and ruthlessness alone. 

Harry steps out of the dressing room, suit fitting him perfectly. He’s a vision, finally looking the part of the golden boy he is, the nation’s chosen son. The one who accomplished all the things which Draco was destined, yet routinely failed. Draco doesn’t begrudge him this; he admires Harry as much as the rest of them. 

“How does it look?” Harry asks. He’s trying, God help him. Doesn’t see that this is all a part of Draco’s father’s scheming. The final dagger slipped into Draco’s heart, for all that Harry seems to think this is his destiny realized. Soon enough he'll realize that Draco's nothing but an anchor to drag him down too. 

Draco wants to scream and yell at him, demand to know why he agreed, why he hadn’t just left Draco behind in the Gath camp to die in the first place, finally freeing him from this life. How Harry can be so cruel to look excited for their upcoming nuptials, as if it isn’t the beginning of the end for the both of them. 

Instead, Draco smirks and answers, “I’m not sure how I’ll bring myself to rid you of it on our wedding night.”

Harry frowns and comes to stand by the chair Draco’s sitting in. He places a hand to Draco’s forehead and tips it back, so that Draco’s looking up at him. Draco hums in question. 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, somehow seeing what Draco always tries so hard to hide. They’d gotten close, those days after he’d rescued Draco. 

Almost immediately the press had latched onto Harry, building up the myth surrounding him overnight. Draco had been stationed in the hospital, a litany of doctors and lieutenants, examining and debriefing, one after the next. Harry had been his only true visitor, coming to Draco each night, even when Harry was worn thin by all the interest in his life, checking to see how Draco was. 

Draco has never had someone like that, someone who cared for him beyond his title or birthright. Someone who saw though any shroud he cast himself in. 

Somehow Harry had worked up the nerve to kiss him, just the once, soft and quick. They hadn’t spoke of it again, but the memory of it kept Draco company whenever Harry was away. He told himself that once he was better, released from the confines of the hospital, he’d finally do his father proud. Renounce his title and maybe go back to the tiny little port town Harry had come from, if he’d have Draco, and actually start living his life. 

How funny. That he’d actually had hope, once. It feels ages ago now, not the few short months it's actually been.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Draco asks. He feels tired. The day’s only started, and he’s ready for it to be done. Wants to be free of this whole bastardized event. Wants to be free of everything. 

“See what?” Harry crouches down so that his face is level with Draco’s, looking into his eyes. 

“How badly this is going to turn out.” Draco sighs. “For me, certainly — but you, too. And for the country as well, maybe. For everyone but _him_.” 

Harry bites his lip for a moment, eyes casting about the room. They’re alone, Draco having waved the tailor out once he’d laid Harry’s suit out behind the changing drapery, citing jealousy and relational privilege, when really he just hadn’t had it in him to keep up the act for more than one party. 

“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you,” Harry says, though it sounds like he’s speaking to himself. “It sounds crazy or — or blasphemous, I don’t know.” he closes his eyes and breathes in deep, holding it for a few beats before exhaling slowly. “A few weeks ago, I was standing outside and, well, a butterfly came and landed on my hand. I didn’t think anything of it, and then after a moment a few more came. Draco,” he catches Draco’s eye, leaning in closer and speaking into the air between their mouths, “they landed on my head. All around it.”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. Despite himself, despite all the potential explanations, the agony that is sure to befall them should Harry be speaking the truth, he feels hopeful again. How funny.

**Author's Note:**

> fused with nbc's **[kings](https://mirandahamilton.tumblr.com/post/74879327465/what-would-i-give-for-a-playboy-who-couldnt-keep)** , killed far before its time!!


End file.
